


Volunteers for the Inquisition

by n7chelle



Series: A Herd of Black Sheep [8]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Awkward Cullen Rutherford, But just barely, Chess, Descriptions of violence are in chapter 3 only, F/M, Shovel Talk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2019-02-03
Packaged: 2019-08-09 10:55:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,414
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16448549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n7chelle/pseuds/n7chelle
Summary: Cullen has some illuminating conversations with Athena's three visiting siblings.





	1. Fiorentina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen plays chess with Fi, who drops some not-so-subtle hints.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Special thanks to the Workshop crew (you know who you are) for helping me tweak the "Orlesian"! I know according to canon Orlesian is apparently only used in "isolated communities of marshmen," but...whatever. Orlesians speak Orlesian whenever they want in this AU!

Cullen will have to thank Dorian at some point for the unsolicited advice. 

 

_Commander,_  the mage had said, barely deigning to look up from his book as Cullen passed by the sagging armchair and piles of dusty tomes the man had lain claim to.  _Invite the fair Lady to a game of chess._

It had seemed an innocently fortuitous suggestion at the time; he  _had_ been wracking his brain for some excuse to approach Athena privately—something that didn't involve troop movements or diplomatic envoys. Sparring came to mind, maybe, but while often a source of calm for himself—especially in recent weeks, the constant, buzzing itch at the base of his skull becoming harder and harder to ignore the longer he went  _without—_ it wasn't quite what he had in mind. Athena spent enough time with a blade in her hand; he wanted to offer her some sanctuary from that, if only for a few hours.

And so: chess. Leliana had eyes and ears everywhere, of course, but perhaps she'd simply happened to listen in from up in the rookery that morning. Whatever the reason, Cullen found a polished stone board on his desk only a day later, unannounced and unclaimed but for the plum-colored ribbon sealing the accompanying box. He'd just opened the lid to inspect the velvet-lined interior, a slim obsidian bishop turning between his gloved fingers, when the Inquisitor herself appeared as if summoned, bearing a conveniently urgent report directly from their esteemed spymaster. 

"You play, Commander?" Athena had asked, and before he knew it Cullen was agreeing to meet her in the garden later that afternoon.  

 

Obvious meddling of their comrades aside, he can't begrudge the assistance. There's something to be said for taking a quiet moment in between battling rogue Templars and risen darkspawn magisters to just...relax. Maker knows they all deserve some measure of relief from everything that's happened so far, especially the Inquisitor. Whatever comes next, Cullen is determined to make something good of the time they have now. 

And...perhaps later. If the right moment presents itself. He might even find the words to share with Athena the feelings he's harbored for longer than he cares to admit, even to himself. 

For now, Cullen is content with this: sitting opposite Athena with only a table, a chessboard, and pleasant conversation between them, enjoying the unseasonable pocket of warmth that always gathers here in the Chantry garden. It feels like he's learned more about her in the past hour than he has in the past four months, and he finds himself speaking of Honnleath and his family, and even a few positive memories of Kirkwall with a lightness he hasn't felt in years.  

He's almost unnerved by the overwhelming dismay that unfurls when they are, inevitably, interrupted. 

"Tena!" Fi appears as if from nowhere, bounding up the gazebo's shallow stairs in a whirlwind of silken layers. She drapes herself over the back of Athena's chair to squeeze her older sister's shoulders in an awkward, but nonetheless enthusiastic hug, and Athena reciprocates as best she can, nuzzling into Fi's wild mane of hair with a grin. Josephine follows after the youngest Trevelyan, sedate and proper, as always. Her ledger is tucked under one arm, thick with papers; the inkwell is safely stoppered and her quill pen nowhere to be seen, though Cullen knows from experience that she can produce one at a moments notice. Varric had started a pool to see if anyone could figure out where she kept them all. Cullen hadn't dared bet himself, having already lost more than his share of coin to Varric and Josephine both. But privately, his guess is on one those ridiculously billowing sleeves. 

"Commander," Jospehine nods, acknowledging him with a dip of her chin. "Inquisitor, if you have a moment...?"  

"Of course, Josephine. Fi—take over for me, will you? Be right back." Athena ushers Fi into her chair before retreating with Josephine to the relative privacy of a torch-lit alcove just off the garden. Cullen watches silently, unable to drag his eyes away until a throat clearing demands his attention. 

Across the table, Fi studies the board with detached interest, hands folded demurely in her lap. Her lips move silently, and with each passing second her expression sharpens into a mask of intense focus. Cullen knows that look. It's the same expression his sister started to get, once it became clear he and his brother might actually take a game on her for the first time.  

But then she scoffs quietly, and the tension fades as quickly as it had come. Without a trace of hesitation, Fi plucks a piece from her sister's back line and jumps it forward. Cullen blinks. On its own the move is not particularly threatening, but given the current state of the board... Against Athena he'd felt evenly matched, perhaps even a slight advantage; a comfortable challenge at least, and no pressure to win. Now, however... He leans forward, studying the pieces over his folded hands.  

"Tena's never really cared for chess." Cullen's gaze flicks up, curious. Fi's attention is still locked on the board. She sits perfectly still, as if she hadn't spoken. Her tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip, and then for a moment her jaw works soundlessly, as if debating whether to say anything else. Small talk has never been Cullen's forte, and he's had precious few chances to speak with the young Lady Trevelyan since she arrived. Hopefully she takes his silence as an invitation to continue, rather than some sort of high-mannered insult or other nonsense that only nobles have time for. 

"Eli says she doesn't have the patience for it," Fi continues at last. Cullen nearly breathes an audible sigh of relief. "Always loses her Queen early." He glances at the pieces gathered near his elbow. Athena's obsidian Queen is indeed there, tall and gleaming among a few pawns, a bishop, and a rook. "I asked why, once. Eli made us play every day when he was in town, and she was always having fun, even though she mostly lost. Y'know what she said?" Cullen looks back up expectantly and finds himself pinned by Fi's stare, gold eyes narrow and mischievous with some secret knowledge. "She said it's all about the company."  

Heat rises in Cullen's cheeks, a red flush surely visible in moments despite his best effort not to let the words effect him so. It doesn't haven't to mean anything. Doesn't have to mean what he  _wants_  it to, anyways. Athena could just as easily enjoy his company as a friend.  

He leans forward, nudging a pawn forward almost blindly. Fi barely pauses, pushing another piece halfway across the board. Over her shoulder, Cullen can see Athena and Josephine standing with their heads bent over the Ambassador's ledger. Athena points at something, and Josephine's brow furrows in a way he's all too familiar with. A thorough explanation always follows—he shouldn't expect Athena to rescue him from this game any time soon. 

It's silly, to let the idle comments of a child spark something warm and tentative in his heart. He'd wondered. Suspected. Hoped, even. And he couldn't deny that some of Athena's questions had certainly been...pointed. Their conversation at Haven, when she'd asked him about a Templar's vow. Their last, in fact, before Corypheus and Haven and— 

The crackle of burning houses— 

The thunderous roar of the mountain, snow racing to bury them alive— 

The memories drag at Cullen, threatening to drown him before he yanks himself back from the edge, barricading himself from his own mind. What's done is done and requires no further reflection, save to not let it happen again. Cullen focuses only on the before, on the way she'd watched him intently as he fumbled an answer. At the time, he'd dismissed it as simple curiosity, perhaps a bit of teasing at his expense. But there were other hints: the kindred smirk they'd shared over the tedium of Chantry politicking in Val Royeaux; the way she always seemed to seek him out first for debriefing upon her return from the field, no matter his relevance to the mission; smiles aimed in his direction across the war table that seemed warmer, more genuine, than those to his colleagues.  

Cullen moves another piece absentmindedly, the game half-forgotten. Fi's hand reaches out over the board at the edge of his vision, shifting one of her pieces only a single space. The next several moves pass in a distracted blur, until: 

"Well, that didn't take too long now did it?" Athena reappears, more jovial than dealing with the Inquisition's diplomatic dilemmas should warrant. "Fi!" she exclaims. Cullen shakes himself minutely, roused by the suppressed laughter and chastisement somehow injected into a single name, and properly studies the game—perhaps for the first time since Athena left. "You could at least get to know the Commander before you start taking his money."  

And it's true—he's unequivocally ceded control of the board Fi, allowed her to corner him in, quite frankly, a rather ingenious formation using the haphazard assortment of pieces Athena had left. 

"C'est pas ma faute, frangine!" Fi responds. Cullen's Orlesian is limited to military ranks and a few swears, but she sounds mildly defensive to his ears. "Le Commandant était distrait...puisque t'as laissé."  _Commandant?_  The single word he picks up from the lyrical and otherwise incomprehensible stream of sounds stands out like a red flag.  

"Fi," Athena says again, but with a hint of embarrassment this time. "Don't you have work to be doing? Josephine mentioned a meeting with some of the Tranquil in the library..." 

"Oh!" Fi stands briskly. Her many-layered skirts rustle delicately around her as she does. "Please excuse me, Commander. I hope we can play again sometime." She departs with a shallow, graceful curtsy befitting an Orlesian debutante, and rejoins the Ambassador where she'd lingered on the edge of the garden. 

"Don't mind Fi," Athena says, retaking her seat. "Sometimes I think she's already picked up too much of Game—taking pleasure in a crushing victory as much as simply playing." 

"I take no offense in being beaten by a more skilled player. In chess, at least." Cullen assures her. He wants to say more, and maybe it's Fi's not-so-subtle hints giving him courage; the words tumble out before his nerves have a chance to swallow them back down. "I'm afraid I wasn't much of an opponent, really. I was, uh, distracted." 

Athena freezes in the act of settling back into her chair. Gold eyes, widened pleasantly with surprise, flit back and forth between his in a brief, silent study. 

Then, "How about another game, then?" The smile Athena gives him over the chess board—warm, knowing, and playful all at once—is worth the nervous jangling of clumsiness he feels at the admission. 

It's the work of a few seconds to reset the pieces. Cullen reaches for a pawn, only to have the pieces rotate away. Athena straightens the board with the marble-white in front of her instead.  

The pawn Cullen had been reaching for advances two squares, and Athena snugs her chin casually onto an upturned palm.  

"Your move, Commander."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fun fact: I've been working my way backwards through these events. Now that Fi is done, I can get back to where I started, at the end with Baz!


	2. Fiorentina

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen goes to thank Theo for helping out some of his troops, and gets some unexpected advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *January 2019 Edit* If you've been here before, Theo's chapter is now in the correct place in this little timeline! I made some minor continuity edits to this chapter and finally got the conversation with Fi written to my satisfaction. :D

Cullen's not entirely certain where the Inquisitor's siblings fit into the chain of command. None of them have formally joined the Inquisition—Fi is too young, at any rate—and yet each of them, including Fi, has found a niche in Skyhold's day-to-day operations seemingly overnight. The Trevelyans are somewhere between diplomatic guests and volunteers, and on top of being the Inquisitor's family, Cullen has no idea how he's meant to treat them.

The fact that he's inching towards properly defining the _something_ that's manifest as late-night conversations over dinner and chess games in the afternoons certainly isn't helping.

So far he's done an admirable job of not making a fool of himself at the very least, limiting his interactions to a polite greeting—or even better, a wordless nod—if their paths happen to cross around Skyhold. He's been more than happy to let Josephine manage the civilian side of the Inquisition's manpower whenever Baz or Theo are mentioned during War Council meetings. But now there's a loose end, one Cullen can't in good conscious ignore and still call himself Commander of the Inquisitions troops.

Curiosity gets the better of him first, so he watches from the window of his office, hoping to see exactly what a guardsmen from Ostwick has to teach the soldiers of the Inquisition. His vigilance is rewarded: shortly after the breakfast bell the bright red hair that marks Athena's brother emerges from the guest quarters. Theo greets the men and women gathered around the training ring with an ease that belies the short time since his arrival, shrugs into one of the leather vests slung over the fence, and claims a blunted blade before launching into a series of practice forms.

Even at a distance, the man's skill with a sword is clear. Cullen finds his sword arm twitching to make the the thrusts and blocks of his invisible opponent. Theo's motions aren't the fancy blade-twirling of a self-important chevalier, more for show than anything else—they're practical, efficient, and most of all, effortless. He practically dances through the exercise, and it's no surprise to Cullen to see that many of his soldiers, new recruits and veterans alike, stop to watch as well. After he's finished, Theo beckons the greenest recruits off to one side outside the ring and walks them through the sequence of blocking, thrusting, parrying, and all the footwork in-between. They practice in mock duels against each other, with Theo demonstrating corrections when necessary, before each of them faces Theo one-on-one. None are victorious, but the effect of his teaching is clear.

Roughly an hour of training later, Theo hangs up his vest and blade and heads in the direction of the baths. Cullen watches for a bit longer, pleased to see his soldiers continuing to run through the practice form they'd just learned with impressive accuracy and confidence. Theo reappears soon enough, clean and ruddy-cheeked from the heat of the baths, and makes a beeline for the kitchens. Cullen drops the report he'd been glancing over onto the stack on his desk, and follows.

He hasn't spent much time in the civilian spaces of Skyhold. There weren't many to begin with; the garden, the Great Hall, Herald's Rest. Cullen had learned early on that his presence seemed to stifle the easy mood of the rank-and-file at the dinner table unless he was accompanying others of the "Inner Circle" as it were, and he isn't really one to drink alone. Before Dorian had encouraged him to sit down for a game of chess a few weeks ago, he hadn't visited the garden since the initial inspection of Skyhold's grounds.

The kitchens, therefore, are far outside Cullen's authority or purview as the Inquisitor's tactical advisor. Still, he climbs the winding stairs near the sagging barn where Dennet tends Athena's personal mount, determined not to be cowed by threat of simple unfamiliarity. The scent of spiced meat and warm bread greets him at the door, and all at once Cullen is reminded that he neglected to eat anything for breakfast. Again. Surely there might be something left over he can pinch for himself...?

Cullen pushes into the kitchens, expecting to see Theo picking over the breakfast remainders himself—not to find the man dressed in an apron, with flour up to his elbows and surrounded by trays of uncooked rounds of dough. Theo barely glances up, then his attention whips back to Cullen in the next second. His posture straightens into something less casual, though not unfriendly. 

"Commander," Theo says, and even salutes sharply with a flour-covered hand. "What brings you to the kitchen?"

"I might ask you the same thing, Ser Trevelyan," Cullen answers, after a moment of scrambling for a reply.

"Kitchen staff needed help—I know how to cook. Didn't think anyone would mind." Theo grabs a little ball of dough from one of the trays and begins flattening it with a rolling pin. 

"I—I didn't mean to imply you're doing anything wrong," Cullen stammers, already regretting whatever possessed him to approach one of Athena's siblings if he's just going to make an ass of himself in the process. "Far from it. I wanted to thank you, actually." One of Theo's red eyebrows arches questioningly. He grabs a spoon from a bowl Cullen hadn't noticed, scooping some kind of filling onto the now-flat dough. He pulls the edges around to cover the filling in swift, sure motions, then sets the neatly round dumpling back on the tray. Now that Cullen's paying attention, the scent filling the kitchen air is vaguely familiar...something he often ate in Kirkwall. "Are...you making  _pirosh_  dumplings?" 

Theo freezes again, but this time with a look of pleasant surprise softens his features. 

"I thought Tena might like the taste of something familiar. Lady Montilyet said she's expected back today," Theo smiles, hopeful. "You've had them before? I didn't think they were common in Ferelden. Certainly not Orlais." 

"I," Cullen falters. Most people already know all about his time in Kirkwall. But admitting it to a near-stranger suddenly opens him up to the inevitable questions:  _Where you there when the Qunari invaded? What happened to the Chantry? Did you fight against Knight-Commander Meredith?_  Even Athena had asked, blatantly curious, and oblivious to his discomfort on the subject. According to Varric, he hides it well. He's gotten better at talking about it since, unexpectedly enough with Varric's help. It's easier with someone who saw so many of the same things. "I was in Kirkwall for a time," he finally says, trying not to sound overly blunt or angry at being asked. "After the Fifth Blight," he adds. It feels important that he be absolutely clear for some reason.

Predictably, Theo's eyes widen briefly at the implications, but he doesn't ask. He just finishes shaping another dumpling, and then a little bell sounds somewhere in the kitchen, and he's turning away from Cullen to pull more trays out of the closest oven. The baked dumplings are golden-brown and venting steam from a line of chevrons slashed across the tops. Cullen itches to snatch one right off the tray, burnt fingers be damned.

"Here." As if reading his thoughts, Theo reaches over to yet another tray, this one covered with a cotton sheet. He snags a couple of dumplings that have cooled enough to touch. 

The hunger in Cullen's belly had dulled to a distant pinch throughout the morning, but the imminence of food brings it surging to the fore. He takes a bite without hesitation, relishing the crackle of the crusty bread, and then the mixture of richly flavored meat and onion inside. Cullen opens his eyes on a long exhale, having closed them without realizing. It's not exactly the taste he remembers, but plenty familiar. It takes him back to Kirkwall in an instant, to just before refugees started to arrived from Ferelden. The dumplings sold on the street were spicier then, sometimes enough to make his eyes water, stuffed with more garlic and ginger than was probably reasonable. As the years passed and the Ferelden population settled into Kirkwall, the dumplings gradually got saltier, and then blander overall, accommodating the influx of new tastes. Cullen, Fereldan-born notwithstanding, found himself longing for the old spiciness; he says as much to Theo after the last bite is gone and the crumbs are brushed from his shirt. 

"Ha! Well, thankfully the  _boil everything until it's gray_  sensibility isn't in the blood," Theo laughs. "Tena's from Ferelden too, y'know, and we both like 'em as spicy as they come."

"Right. I'd forgotten that, to be honest."

"It's the accent. Hardly anyone can place a Marcher except another Marcher."

"So I've heard," Cullen nods. "Speaking of the Free Marches..." Theo gestures for him to continue, his hands working the dough and filling almost absentmindedly. "You were in the Guard together, yes? You and—and Athena." It's still awkward, speaking her given name to other people. But it would be even more awkward to call her  _Lady Trevelyan_ , or worse, something like  _Her Worship_ to her own family.

"We were. Still are, I guess? Didn't strip me of my rank when I asked for indefinite leave, anyways. Why do you ask?"

"It's what I wanted to thank you for, actually. For teaching some of the recruits, I mean. It's already made a difference, and I appreciate it."

Theo shrugs away the compliment. "I'm not showing them anything Tena couldn't do herself. Although I guess she's a little too busy to train the rank-and-file these days."

"Ah, yes, you could say that. I've...never actually seen her pick up a blade outside of combat myself. But, what I have seen was...efficient." Cullen trails off, remembering the brief skirmish where he'd fought off Red Templars at her side. Her single-minded focus had surprised him, no energy wasted on reckless brutality, but there was a ferocity to her attacks that set him at ease entrusting her to guard his back. "So Ostwick trains their soldiers well, I take it?"

"As well as any other Guard, I suppose," Theo shrugs again. "Elijah had us all tutored as soon as we could hold a blade. Even Fi, if you can believe it. He hired a retired merc out of Markham for the job. But speaking of Tena..." He slaps one last bun down, claps the flour from his hands, and slides the full trays into the oven before swinging back to face Cullen head on, hands braced on the now-clear tabletop. "What's the deal with you two, huh?"

"I—what?" Cullen actually takes a startled step back. "I—don't know what you're..."

"Look, I know my sister, and she's not the type to play coy when she's interested. So you're either stringing her along, or you're keeping things private—and forgive the honesty, Commander, but you don't strike me as someone who's particularly good at Wicked Grace." Theo straightens, crossing his arms tightly. "All of which is irrelevant, since I have it on good information from my  _other_  sister that you're not  _anything..._ yet."

Sweet Maker, Cullen winces. The chess game. He  _knew_  Fi was too perceptive. 

"I don't expect you to bare your soul to me Commander, but a word of advice?" Cullen drags his gaze back to Theo, feeling flayed open by the same piercing golden eyes as Athena, the one trait she shares with all her siblings. "Don't wait. I don't know how long this Inquisition of yours is planning to stick around, I don't even know if you're expecting to live through whatever Maker-damned cataclysm you're supposed to be preventing. I can't even ask Tena about Haven, but I know it was a close call. I've seen the Anchor. I've seen the way she hides how much it's hurting her, when she thinks no one is looking." Theo sighs heavily, breaking the stare that was pinning Cullen in place like an insect on a board. For a moment he looks exhausted, amiability drained from his face, shoulders slumped by invisible weights. "Just. Don't wait." Then a blink, and it's gone. Theo scrubs at his nose, rolls his shoulders back, and the gesture is so familiar Cullen can't help but feel a bit more at ease with him. "Anyways, here. Maybe you can share with Tena once she gets back?" 

A knotted bundle of cotton is thrust under Cullen's nose. His hands come up to accept reflexively. Something warms his palms through the fabric, and the scent of fresh bread and meat and spices wafts over him. It's far more dumplings than he could responsibly finish himself. Cullen smiles awkwardly, letting his uncertainty out in a sigh.

"Thank you, Theo. I'll...keep what you said in mind." 


	3. Bazilio

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cullen visits the Undercroft to see Dagna's latest project.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra special thanks to the Workshop crew for their help with this chapter!

Cullen hasn't spent much time in the Undercroft since the Inquisition arrived at Skyhold. His only visit, in fact, had been a brief meeting with Harritt to make sure the smith had everything he needed to keep the arms and armor of the Inquisitor and her inner circle in good condition. He's had no reason to return, and as such he's never actually met the dwarven arcanist that arrived while they were all still settling into to their new home.

It's a surprise then, to find a handwritten missive, personally addressed to him and pinned to his desk by what looks like one of Sera's arrows:

_Commander Rutherford—_

_I need a Templar's perspective. At your earliest convenience. But as soon as possible, if you don't mind._

_—Arcanist Dagna_

Cullen isn't a true Templar anymore, but it doesn't seem appropriate to send Lysette or an under-trained subordinate in his place, not when the arcanist had clearly asked for him specifically.

And so a few days later, with Athena out on another mission and no War Council meetings scheduled until her return, Cullen finds himself staring down the salt-scented stairwell while the sunset casts long, stained-glass shadows across the floor of the great hall.

Enclosed spaces have never been his favorite thing in the world, but a particularly unsettling itch crawls into Cullen's chest as he starts downward. The stone steps feel moist and slick underfoot, as if coated with some marshy slime; though he sees nothing of the sort in the flickering torchlight, his boots squelch softly as he places his feet cautiously on each step, a hand braced on the wall for balance. Halfway down, the evening chill starts to bleed through his glove, shivering up his arm and down into his weak, traitorous knees. His breath stutters out in faint gray clouds. Just a few more steps. He can already see the doorway looming below, just a few more steps and he'll be out into a wide-open cavern full of ice and clean air.

Then the hollow, ever-present ache in his belly and bones throbs hungrily—and in the cold unknown of the Undercroft, something pulses back in reply.

Stepping out onto the broad landing at the bottom of the stairs should be a relief, but Cullen's blood is thrumming too hot and fast under his skin. It’s _too_ open, indefensible, unpredictable. The ceiling drips with icicles, hanging sharp and lethal overhead, and the wide stone arch exposing the Undercroft to mountains and sky presents the only escape: plunging to one’s death down the icy cliffside.

Cullen’s off hand grips the hilt at his waist, squeezing until leather creaks in protest. The Undercroft is not a battlefield, it’s a workshop. Twin anvils occupy the central worktable, scattered tools and a half-finished breastplate on the wooden rack between them. A scale model of Skyhold stands on a drafter’s table at the far end, where the pale stone railing is tinged with dying sunlight. Mechanisms and machinery beyond his knowledge of the trade line the walls. Harritt, however, is nowhere to be seen. In his stead, tinkering with something on the blacksmith's worktable, is Baz Trevelyan, Athena's taller, broader brother.

"Commander," the man says, tipping his head politely.

"Ser Trevelyan." Cullen almost nods, only managing a sharp jerk of his chin.

"Oh! Commander, over here please!" Dagna beckons from her station, opposite Harritt’s. She barely glances up from her work, adjusting the many articulated arms mounted on a wrought iron bust of a humanoid head and shoulders. Something tiny and blue glows at the tip of one crooked arm.

Stepping off the landing is like plunging into a thick, invisible fog. Cullen's skin stretches tighter with each step closer to Dagna's strange device, a bright kernel of pain blooming at the base of his skull. As he draws closer a vague, spherical outline takes shape amidst the light. It burns like the sun when he tries to stare at it directly. He looks at Dagna instead, still working intently, mere inches between her nose and the sphere. Her face obscured by thick, black goggles. Somehow the tiny blue sphere is reflected in full on their mirror-smooth surface, the glowing aura stripped away. The lenses appear crafted from solid obsidian, and he can’t imagine the arcanist can see anything through them. But her hands move swiftly, adjusting the hooked, serpentine arms with a deft precision that says otherwise.

Behind him, Cullen hears Baz abandon whatever he's working on. A moment later the man is lingering over his shoulder beside the arcanist's worktable, a warm presence at Cullen's back, something for Cullen to focus on besides the pain and hunger gnawing away at his insides. At last, Dagna hops off the little stool drawn up close to the table. Cullen's eyes follow her down, dragging away from the sphere's reflection dizzily. She's even smaller than Harding, and notably slender despite her bulky workshop gear. Most of the dwarves he's met are stockier, even those born on the surface.

The arcanist flips up her iron-and-obsidian goggles, a bright smile crinkling her eyes. "Thank you for seeing me so quickly, Commander. I'm sure you have a lot going on topside—I _really_ appreciate you taking the time."

"Of course," Cullen says, forcing his jaw into motion; blunt, but at least it's not through gritted teeth. Dagna doesn't seem to notice.

"So, red lyrium. Corypheus and his rogue templars are full of the stuff, right? And it sings. Or, it makes you hear singing. No way around it, so I thought, why not use it? Regular lyrium, it doesn't sing. But it's better—malleable, lots of uses, more than just raw power for mages and Templars." Cullen flinches at the reminder, blue light insistent at the corner of his vision. "Best of all, it can _learn_. You just have to know how to teach. Here, put these on." Dagna fishes around in her apron, and comes up with two more pairs of dark-lensed goggles. Baz, still the silent observer, takes one without hesitation and slips the leather strap behind his head, the black disks settling over his eyes. Cullen follows suit, fiddling with the iron buckle on the side to pull it snug.

Dagna hops back up on her stool, flipping her own goggles back down. She reaches out to one of the arms, a glimmer of deep, ruby red on the tip, and presses it against the lyrium orb.

Cullen breathes in.

The lyrium, it… It _is_ singing. To him— _through_ him—sweet and cloying and yearning and beautiful and rekindling the remnants in his blood, making them burn, just like the first nights after he stopped taking it all over again, shivering at his desk in the middle of the night, too agitated to sleep, sweat-drenched and miserable, arms crossed and bruise-tight, anything to keep from letting go, from taking up the philter sitting just within reach.

The song pours into him, filling up the pit of hunger he thought bottomless and untouchable, coating his brittle bones like honey, everything soft and warm and bright, reminding him what it was like to be strong and _whole_ , answering the call of battle with lyrium humming in his veins...

_The streets of Kirkwall run red with the blood of mages and Templars alike. Meredith towers before him, her face twisted into a mask of righteous insanity and wreathed in the electric red glow of the lyrium greatsword in her hand. She lunges, flanked by bronze statues given life; he's ready for the blow, braced for it. If only he'd been willing to see what she was, before it was too late. He could've prevented this—_

_The air is full of screaming, black smoke, the city ablaze, Qunari herding people into dead-ends like animals, cutting them down with ease. He huddles with a knot of quivering, wide-eyed children in the deep shadows of an alley, waiting for the pounding footsteps and jangle of iron to fade away. If he can get them to the Chantry, they might be spared where so many have fallen. And to think all of this could've been avoided, if the Viscount had just expelled the Qunari when they first arrived—_

_The Circle is overrun. Uldred possessed, humanity sloughed off like a snake shedding skin. The Tranquil died in silence, pitiful, helpless shells unable to fight even for their own lives. But the cries of his friends still echo even now that he's alone, bodies torn open and left for the maggots, some by their own horrified hands. The demons taunt him, tease him, offer him comfort in the guise of a familiar face, a kind voice, then flood his mind with nightmares of endless torment, visions of his own body, broken and violated beyond human imagining, but still alive. He should've killed them all when he had the chance,_ **_he should've killed all of the them_ ** _—_

A cry tears free of Cullen's throat, mewling and desperate. He stumbles backwards, into Baz, and they both go down in a tangle of limbs.

" _What is this?! What is—no, Maker, please—make it st—make it stop, please, no more,_ **_please_ ** — _"_

"The frost rune, Dagna! Give it to me!"

Searing cold against the back of his neck, so cold it burns like the hottest fire sucks Cullen out of his tortured memories and back into his own skin. Clean, cold air rolls in from the mountains, whistling through the icicles and chilling Cullen to the bone, leaving him sweat-soaked and shaking like a leaf in a storm. The fog is gone and he gulps in fresh air, lungs straining against too much and not enough at the same time. The firm weight of an arm around his shoulders is the only thing that keeping him upright.

Baz has turned them away from Dagna's machine. Snow-capped peaks and the swiftly darkening sky swim in the distance, the familiar frigid landscape helping Cullen back into the here-and-now. They're propped against the stairs, hard lines of stone digging into his back, but the bulk of his weight is settled on Baz himself. Shame presses down on Cullen. He wants to shrug off the comforting arm of Athena's brother, to prove he's still strong, that he _can_ do this—

"It's alright," Baz says, his voice a deep, unfamiliar rumble. "You're safe. You're in Skyhold. You're safe."

"What _was_ that," Cullen tries to bellow at Dagna, his voice shattering into a whine instead. He slumps against Baz, losing the battle to hold himself up. " _Why_ would you—" he can't finish, the memories too fresh, warring with the need to cringe away from the horrors conjured by his own mind, and the heart-pounding urge to lash out, defend himself.

The arcanist stands before him as if spellbound, shock apparent even with her eyes still covered by the pitch-black goggles. The last orange glare of sunset bounces off the icicles and lands on her face, dancing over the obsidian glass like fire.

"Out! _Get out of my sight_ , or Maker help me—" He manages to dredge up the semblance of a growl, of a real threat, easier than he thought it would be, and when Dagna recoils a perverse thrill spreads through him, at least until the echo of her footsteps disappears into that accursed stairwell.

Cullen shoves a trembling hand through his hair, blunt fingernails digging into his scalp. The pain is grounding, but it's not enough.

Training and doctrine can only change a man so much, even that of the templars. Samson is proof enough of that. A man’s will, the core of his being, is all that survives when he has nothing left. Cullen found a kindred spirit in the Order as a boy; eager to serve, determined to prove his worth as a defender of the people, a bulwark against the dangers of magic. He embraced the righteous, centered discipline of the templars, and strove to embody its tenants in every thought and deed. He believed his resolve was unbreakable.

After Kinloch, he knew he was wrong.

After Kirkwall… He wondered whether it had ever truly existed.

Haven was meant to be a new start, a sanctuary both in name and purpose. Cullen had set aside his templar burdens and taken up the Inquisition’s in their place. He’d told himself to trust in the Maker’s will one last time, told himself his suffering had had purpose, that it meant something if he could still hold a blade and stand in defense of those who couldn’t defend themselves.

And _still_ the Maker tested him?

Were he alone, Cullen might've found the strength to stem the rising tide. But the gentleness of the man beside him feels like a gift, an offering of safe harbor to fall apart before putting himself back together. So he lets the tears come, lets them blur his vision and make salty tracks down his stubble-rough cheeks and pool over his scarred lip and drip unfettered onto the backs of gloved hands curled in his lap, his chest juddering in fits and starts and the only sound his own ragged breathing. All the while Baz sits beside him, silent, solid, and without judgement.

"Tell me something good," Baz says eventually, when Cullen's body has wrung itself dry.

"Something good," Cullen scoffs. He sniffs wetly and wipes his nose on the underside of his sleeve, too far gone to feel even the slightest embarrassment at the indignity. But he tries. He sifts through is memories, searching for something, anything worth the kindness Baz has just shown him.

Cullen doesn't know Baz. They haven't shared an unexpected heart-to-heart or bonded over chess. He's barely seen the man except from afar. Mostly in the company of Dorian and Iron Bull, when the Trevelyans aren't all gathered together in some corner of Skyhold. Rarely has Cullen witnessed Athena so relaxed and open as when the four siblings have their heads bent together. The edge of his lip, scarred and stiff, twitches at the picture they make in his mind.

And there, there it is. She could be hundreds of miles away, and just the thought of her lifts him up, makes him want to be better, _do_ better, to drag himself out of the mud and stand tall. Because he can. _You can._

"Athena," Cullen says, letting himself feel it, the shape of her name tugging his lips into a smile. Baz claps him once on the shoulder, solid and warm. He's smiling, too.

" _Good_."


End file.
